


Break the Fall

by LeapAngstily



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Monto has issues, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily/pseuds/LeapAngstily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes everything needs to break apart before things can get better – Riccardo’s final year in Fiorentina told from the beginning and the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Break the Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Set between the summers 2011 and 2012. Based on the rumours/news about Montolivo’s falling out with the Fiorentina management and its consequences: the whole truth is obviously only theirs to know and ours to speculate.

Riccardo arrives in Milanello without much of a fanfare. The facility is almost empty, so he has the free reign to finish the obligatory fitness tests and to get used to his new environment without facing other players wherever he goes.  
  
Most of the team are on their way to Germany for a preseason friendly, and he wishes he could be there too, the huge motivation to wear the  _rossoneri_ jersey something he has not experienced in a long, long time.  
  
Not even the European Championships could fill him with such a drive as being in Milanello does. As much as he loves playing for the national team, he is still only a second-choice player there: made to play in a position he does not feel comfortable in, because no one could ever replace the great Pirlo as the primus-motor of the midfield. (Not  _yet_ , Riccardo reminds himself.)  
  
In Milan he feels immediately welcomed – by the staff, by the fans, by the teammates he has known only as opponents and through the national team before this.  
  
He feels  _needed_ , and he is prepared to give everything he has for this amazing team, to step up from the level he has been playing at until now.   
  
For the first time since the whole transfer saga started, he has the confidence to actually believe that he can make a difference.  
  
(He wishes he had enough courage to tell this to Alberto as well.)  
  
  
  
 _“I’m sorry, but we won’t sell. Not for a ridiculous offer like that. You’re far too valuable for us.”_  
  
Riccardo had thought the negotiations had been going well. All the details of the contract had been agreed on, and the solution had really seemed like a win-win for everyone: Milan would get a new playmaker in Pirlo’s place; Riccardo would get a chance to play in the Champions League for the team he had admired all his life; and Fiorentina would get a substantial compensation for a player with only a year remaining on his contract.  
  
He is understandably furious when the deal falls through despite his and Galliani’s persistent attempts to find a compromise that would suit all the parties.  
  
 _”You should look into the other offers, they’re much more agreeable.”_  
  
Riccardo does not  _want_  to join the fucking Roma where he would be just stuck playing on the same level as in his current team. He wants to play for a big club where he can develop into a better player – where being the best of Fiorentina does not equal automatic place at the top.  
  
That is why, after years of good relations and sticking together through the good times and the bad, Riccardo ends up breaking all the chances of reconciliation with the team management as he stubbornly refuses to renew his contract.  
  
He lets them choose: accept Milan’s offer now or lose him to them for free next year.  
  
(In all honesty, he never thought they would actually opt to keep him.)  
  
Alberto points out to him gently that maybe he is being unnecessarily harsh, his own selfish wishes blinding him from the reasons behind the management’s actions.  
  
“I’m just saying that maybe there could’ve been a better way to handle the situation,” he explains patiently as Riccardo just scoffs at his words, “Not all contracts end in bad terms, you know?”  
  
  
  
His season ends one game too soon due to an injury, and frankly, he feels relieved.  
  
He bids his farewells to his teammates, warm hugs and words of encouragement exchanged in all directions.   
  
He gives positive, heartfelt comments about his wonderful years in Florence, smiling at appropriate moments and frowning at others, offering his thanks to the team that made him into a man he is today.  
  
The words sound empty even in his own ears.   
  
How could he ever say he is thankful (and mean it) when the past year has probably been the most excruciating one in his entire career? When the management made its best to ensure he would not be able to play at his actual level – made him appear as a traitor, as someone who deserved all the possible hate the fans could throw in his direction.  
  
He wants to leap in joy and tell everyone how happy he is to leave. No more hateful comments from the fans, no more silent disappointment from his coach, no more matches where he is only playing with a half of his heart.  
  
But Riccardo is a professional, which is why he keeps all these thoughts to himself and just smiles to the cameras, singing praises for the team he once held so dear.  
  
He catches himself wishing that Alberto was still there – he always was the one who could make Riccardo remember the good things, even at the times when he was feeling lost and trapped in all his negativity. With Alberto by his side, maybe he could even find a shimmer of truth among the lies he keeps spouting.  
  
He dismisses the thought immediately. Alberto is gone, left to play for Genoa months ago, and Riccardo cannot keep on relying on someone who is not a part of his life anymore.  
  
(The thought makes him feel like crying.)  
  
  
  
Being stripped of the team captaincy should not have surprised him as much as it actually does. It definitely should not hurt this much.  
  
Being a captain was never his first priority. He had never even considered the possibility before the armband was offered to him – he always associated captaincy with the likes of Maldini, Totti and Cannavaro: the strong, confident, outspoken leader-types.  
  
But despite Riccardo’s own doubts, the armband had been a proof of the team’s trust: it told Riccardo they believed in his abilities to lead them even during the worst of times. For it to be taken away like this feels like a part of his very self is being ripped off.  
  
“The players still have faith in you, Riccardo,” Alberto assures him, speaking for everyone in the dressing room, “If we’d been given the choice, you’d still be our captain.”  
  
Riccardo thinks they might be misplacing their trust. What kind of a leader opts to leave his team at the time of difficulties? What captain is willing to give up the trust of his teammates to pursue his own, selfish goals?  
  
“You’re gonna do so great in the big stages,” Alberto whispers into his ear, like reading his thoughts, “We’re all so lucky to have had you as our captain.”  
  
The agreeing voices echoing from all over the dressing room are almost enough to make Riccardo break down and cry right there in front of them. The thanks he offers to them are genuine, and so is the support he expresses to Gamberini, their newly-appointed captain.  
  
Alberto’s hand rests comfortably on the small of his back all this time, a reassuring touch that makes Riccardo feel safe and warm even as his life is slowly falling into pieces.  
  
He leans into the touch, just slightly – a smallest of gestures that still holds all the gratitude he could ever express.  
  
  
  
Riccardo tries to catch Alberto’s gaze across the pitch, but the striker keeps averting his eyes whenever he catches a sight of him.  
  
He looks so unfamiliar in the Genoa colours that Riccardo almost starts to wonder whether he is the same person at all. It feels like they are light-years apart, when in reality the distance can be counted in mere meters.  
  
The firm set of Alberto’s shoulders practically screams at Riccardo to  _stay the fuck away_. Seeing it hurts a thousand-fold more than outright insults ever could, but Riccardo still cannot make himself look away.  
  
He is still Alberto, despite everything that has happened.  _His_  Alberto.   
  
(Except Alberto was never his, not even close.)  
  
“What’s up with you and Gila? Had an argument or something?” Stevan asks him when they head back to the dressing room after a disappointing draw. From the curious looks he receives from every direction, Riccardo can guess it is a question everyone has been dying to ask for quite a while now. Probably ever since Alberto left the team.  
  
“Something like that,” he answers the Montenegrin testily, unwilling to offer more details than absolutely necessary, “It’s not a big deal, really. Just, something came up.”  
  
Stevan frowns at his response, obviously not buying the (nonexistent) explanation, but also too respectful to pry more into his private matters than he already has.  
  
  
  
He is getting death threats because of his refusal to renew.   
  
Actual, real, fucking  _death threats_ , for fuck’s sake! And then he is supposed to just walk on the pitch and play his very best for the team?  
  
“Don’t mind them,” Alberto repeats for the umpteenth time as the fans boo at the mention of Riccardo’s name, yelling insults whenever he is in the earshot, “No one can hurt you here, they’re all talk and nothing more.”  
  
Riccardo is  _trying_ , he really is, but in the end it is all the same. Having your own supporters turn their backs to you is definitely not the kind of thing to keep you motivated during the long season.  
  
He had not been that ecstatic about Della Valle’s declaration that he is no longer a member of the team, either, or about the way Cognini took his words spoken in private and recounted them in a way that made Riccardo look even worse than he already did.   
  
But the fan reaction is much worse than what the management could ever do, because Riccardo had never intended to disrespect or hurt the fans – he had actually hoped they could see his reasoning.  
  
“Easy for you to say,” he finally replies humourlessly, his forehead pressed against Alberto’s shoulder. The physical contact usually makes him feel at least a bit better, but today it all seems futile.  
  
Riccardo is so exhausted, so full of pretending he does not care. He has not had a good night’s sleep in a long, long time, and the police has advised him not to go anywhere unaccompanied – just until the guy threatening him has been caught. Even  _football_  is slowly becoming something he despises, and this is a sport he loves more than life itself.  
  
Sometimes it feels like Alberto’s soft voice and friendly touches are the only things keeping him sane. (Or maybe it is the other way around, and Alberto is actually pushing him slowly but surely towards insanity.)  
  
Alberto strokes Riccardo’s hair gently, lingering slightly at the curls at the nape of his neck. The feather-light touch is enough to send shivers running down Riccardo’s spine.  
  
“Just think about your teammates when you play. We’re all here for you,” Alberto whispers, his hands now rubbing Riccardo’s back in a friendly reassurance, “Think about me. It’s gonna be fine, I promise you.”  
  
For a second Riccardo thinks he can recognize the same feeling in Alberto’s voice that keeps fluttering in his own chest whenever they are together. Something not entirely familiar, not quite right, almost frightening, but undeniably  _good_  nonetheless.  
  
The moment is over before he knows it, and then they are back to being just friends, nothing more, nothing less. As it should be.  
  
(It is exactly at moments like this that Riccardo doubts Alberto’s positive influence on his mental health.)  
  
  
  
The 0-5 defeat against Juventus is just the tip of the iceberg. They have been struggling the whole season, and losing a bunch of important players in January did not help them in the least.  
  
Losing  _Alberto_  definitely did not help Riccardo. He was distracted in the autumn too, sure, but it was never even close to the state he is in now – without his last ray of hope there to penetrate the walls he has built around himself.  
  
Riccardo refuses to go further with the thought, the pain of Alberto’s departure still much too fresh on his mind.  
  
He has grown accustomed to the booing by now; he has even learned to understand the reasoning behind it, if just for a little bit. Perhaps he has heard the yelled insults one time too many, has actually started to believe them. Or maybe his own anger towards Alberto’s transfer has given him some new perspective.  
  
Ironically, it is the Juventus players who offer him the comfort he used to receive from Alberto.  
  
Buffon ruffles his hair and pats his butt in a playful gesture after a missed attempt at scoring, laughing softly at the involuntary blush that creeps on Riccardo’s cheeks in response.  
  
Pirlo hugs him after the final whistle, a gentle “It’ll get better, just bear with it just a while longer” whispered into his ear. Riccardo is immediately reminded that Pirlo of all people should understand what he is going through, having been in a similar situation only a year earlier. (Except it is much worse for Riccardo, because the decision to leave is all his own.)  
  
He clings to the man just a little bit tighter, basking in his warmth for a while longer.  
  
Claudio is possibly the best of them all, a steady presence at Riccardo’s side as they head out to eat after the match. They have known each other for ages, since they played against each other back in their junior days. A playful rivalry turned into a steady friendship during the numerous games for the national team on different levels.  
  
“They’re just sad they’re gonna lose you,” Claudio comments as he takes his time to look through the menu, “As they should be – you’re the best they’ve got, you know that right?”  
  
Riccardo hums noncommittally, sipping his water in attempt to hide how much the compliment means to him. Claudio has always known exactly what he needs to say to make Riccardo feel better about himself.  
  
“Too bad you don’t wanna join Juve: I could definitely use a cute sidekick like you out there,” Claudio continues, his voice nonchalant but his eyes sparking with mirth, “And God knows Gigi and Andrea would just  _love_  to be able to fuss over you all the time.”  
  
Riccardo kicks him under the table, but he cannot help but laugh at the mental images: Claudio as a superhero with a much too big head on his shoulders, with Riccardo as the sole voice of reason on their endeavours to save the world. (And Buffon’s much too friendly touches and Pirlo’s warm hugs, but that is a territory Riccardo is not willing to enter.)  
  
It is the first time he has experienced this kind of warmth since Alberto left, and that alone is almost enough to make Riccardo reconsider his options for the next season.  
  
  
  
“You can’t fucking leave! You just can’t!”  
  
Riccardo knows he is acting like a selfish, melodramatic, hypocritical prick, but he does not care, because Alberto is leaving for fucking Genoa without so much as a word to Riccardo in advance.  
  
“You promised you’d be there for me. You promised and now you’re leaving and I  _need you_  right here with me, damn it,” he continues, his voice breaking a little as his yelling turns into a more resigned tone.  
  
His fists are on Alberto’s chest, continuously hitting him without any actual power behind them. The last of his willpower is used up in attempt to stop the tears from falling – unsuccessfully.  
  
“Riccardo, be reasonable,” Alberto tells him in a steady voice. He is not yelling back, which makes Riccardo feel even worse, “It’s not an offer I can easily turn down, not when the teams have reached an agreement already.”  
  
Riccardo cannot bring himself to reply, because he knows he would just make the situation worse than it already is.  
  
“You of all people should know how hard it is to play here these days – I’m just lucky enough to get a chance to move on,” Alberto’s voice fills the silence between them, but none of it really sinks into Riccardo’s overwhelmed mind.  
  
“Figures they’d let  _you_  leave without lifting a finger while keeping me here against my will,” he mumbles darkly, his hands now gripping Alberto’s shirt unconsciously, “Bet they just enjoy torturing me...”  
  
“Not everything is about you!” Alberto finally snaps, raising his own hand to retract Riccardo’s fists from his chest, startling the younger man with his sudden outburst. Alberto has  _never_  raised his voice with Riccardo before, and hearing it feels like a slap against his face.  
  
“Gila--” Riccardo begins unsurely, but is interrupted before he can say anything more.  
  
“This past half a year, it’s been all about you:  _your_  wish to leave,  _your_  problems,  _your_  suffering,  _your_  needs, you, you, you!” Alberto is letting it all come out now, and Riccardo can do nothing but listen.  
  
“You brought this onto yourself when you cut your ties with the management! I told you not to, but you never listen. You just cling to your stupid principles that make you more harm than good. You’re almost 27 already, so stop acting like a fucking child!”  
  
He takes a moment to catch his breath, his eyes finally focusing on Riccardo’s face – lips slightly parted for a retort that never comes out, wide eyes filled with confusion and betrayal, tears flowing freely down his cheeks.  
  
The angry creases on Alberto’s face begin to soften as he takes in the harm he has done without meaning to.  
  
“I actually like Genoa: it’ll be a good environment to bring up the kids. What’d I do here next autumn, anyways, once you’ve gone to Milan to fulfil your dreams? I’d be the one left behind, and I don’t want that.”   
  
Alberto’s voice turns more and more apologetic as he carries on, desperate to make Riccardo understand his reasons. He reaches out his hand, tries to wipe away the wetness from Riccardo’s face, refusing to pull away even when Riccardo flinches at the touch.  
  
“Gila...” Riccardo tries again but is unable to continue, in a complete loss of what to say. A part of him wants to argue, while another part is ready to apologize, to tell Alberto he understands, that he is happy for him.  
  
And then Alberto is kissing him, and there is no need to say anything at all.  
  
  
  
It is a superficial affair, Alberto’s departure. Only a handful of Viola players are there, Riccardo among them just because not going would have drawn too much attention.  
  
“See you,” “Take care,” “Good luck,” and then Alberto is boarding the plane without as much as an eye contact or a friendly hug.  
  
Riccardo can do nothing but stare at his retreating back, and he knows without saying that this is it: this is the last chance he is going to get to run after him, to make an effort, to try and fix the unfixable.  
  
The words get stuck on his tongue and his legs refuse to move, so he stays put instead.   
  
And Alberto leaves, blissfully unaware of the damage he has done, not hearing the shattering sound that is Riccardo’s heart breaking into tiny pieces.  
  
  
  
Nothing is gentle between them after they take the first step, the earlier anger still bubbling just underneath the surface.  
  
Alberto’s lips are demanding on Riccardo’s, teeth grazing his lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. His hand is gripping the dark curls at the back of Riccardo’s head painfully tight, his other arm wrapped securely around his waist, keeping him from backing away.  
  
Except backing away is the last thing on Riccardo’s mind: he is too busy returning every lick and bite, his hands once again clutching the front of Alberto’s shirt until he can feel the buttons giving out and the fabric ripping to reveal the toned chest underneath.  
  
“God--for so long--shit--you insufferable prick!” Alberto manages to spit out between his erratic gasps as Riccardo breaks the kiss in favour of attacking his neck. He attempts to say something else, but the words are lost in a breathy moan when Riccardo’s fingers graze over his nipple before travelling downwards.  
  
Riccardo bites down on the tender flesh of Alberto’s neck right at the same time as he presses his hand against the obvious bulge in his pants, robbing Alberto the final remains of his self-control.  
  
Suddenly Riccardo finds himself without his shirt, on his back on the too soft mattress of the hotel bed, pinned down firmly by Alberto’s lean body.  
  
Alberto’s blunt nails are digging into Riccardo’s sides, his mouth harsh and demanding on his neck, his chest, his stomach, before his jeans are opened and pulled down his thighs along with his boxers. Riccardo obediently lifts his hips just enough so Alberto can remove the clothes without damaging them, his own hands insistently tugging at the half-opened shirt still clinging to Alberto’s sweaty torso.  
  
(When exactly did the room become so hot?)  
  
Alberto gets up and makes a fast work of his own clothing before he climbs back to the bed, kneeling between Riccardo’s legs. He then pauses just as he is about to kiss Riccardo again.  
  
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes out in a whisper, transfixed with the sight of the naked man beneath him, “I want you so bad.”  
  
“Then take me,” Riccardo answers simply before wrapping his arms around Alberto’s shoulders and pulling him down, not giving him a chance to say another word.  
  
This time the kiss begins more tenderly, both of them having regained some of their senses during the break from the immediate physical contact, but soon enough they slip back to the earlier desperation and fight for dominance – Alberto wins, but only because he cheats, slipping his hand on Riccardo’s erection and rubbing away the last of his resistance.  
  
Riccardo throws his head back with a constrained “Fuck, Gila!” and instinctively wraps one of his legs around Alberto in attempt to draw him even closer, a silent demand of  _more, now, Gila please._  
  
And Alberto complies, spitting into his palm and reaching lower until his fingers are on Riccardo’s entrance. He rubs the hole without entering at first, his fingers slick with saliva and Riccardo’s precome, and then he tentatively presses one finger in.  
  
The pain courses through Riccardo’s body, not used to the intrusion, the makeshift lubricant not nearly enough to lessen the horrible burn. He whimpers involuntary, tears once again slipping from the corners of his eyes.  
  
“Go on,” he still demands. He does not mind the pain – he can handle it – as long as it is Alberto giving it to him and no one else.  
  
The pain intensifies as Alberto keeps pushing the finger through the clenching muscle, and by the time the digit is fully in, Riccardo is crying openly, his whole body tense, but his erection not faltering in the least.  
  
Alberto moves his other hand to caress Riccardo’s cock in a comforting gesture, allowing him time to adjust to the foreign feeling. He wriggles his finger only when he can finally feel Riccardo relaxing under him.  
  
“Wait a sec,” he whispers into Riccardo’s ear as he retracts his hand and reaches out to rummage the nightstand, coming back with a vial of some sort of hand lotion.  
  
“Just try to relax, okay?” he advices (like Riccardo is not trying already) as he coats his fingers with the lotion and proceeds to continue the preparation.  
  
The first finger slips in much more easily this time, the dull pain subsiding fast, and Riccardo finds himself welcoming the intrusion, even pushing against the hand to get more of the sensation.   
  
The second one is more painful, but the thought of losing the contact hurts even more, so Riccardo swallows the sobs of pain, hiding his tear-streaked face into the pillows until it gets better. Alberto’s hand on his cock and lips on his nipples work as a welcome distraction.  
  
“Just do it already,” he practically begs as Alberto scissors his fingers slightly in order to stretch him further. He adds a belated “Please” just in time to interrupt whatever Alberto is about to say.  
  
And then Alberto is inside him, filling every last inch of him with one swift thrust.  
  
The pain is almost unbearable, but Riccardo is well past caring by now: this is Alberto, as close to him as physically possible, and for a moment it feels like they could actually merge into one singular being.  
  
Riccardo wraps his legs on Alberto’s hips and his arms around his back, not allowing him to pull away even as he sobs at the pain and gasps desperately for breath against his neck.  
  
As Alberto begins to move, Riccardo just lets himself go, the broken, incoherent pleas of “Please Gila I’m sorry please please I need you Gila I’m so so so sorry Gila Gila  _Gila_ ” falling out of his mouth until he is not even sure what it is he is apologizing or asking for.  
  
Then Alberto hits something deep inside of him that makes his back arch and the remainders of the pain disappear, and suddenly he cannot even speak anymore, the intense pleasure washing over him in massive waves.  
  
He comes all over Alberto’s hand and his own stomach only moments later, the  _I love you_  dying on his lips before it has a chance to slip out.  
  
Alberto follows him with his own orgasm after a few hard thrusts, spilling every last drop into Riccardo’s clenching body before finally pulling away.  
  
Exhaustion claims Riccardo almost immediately, the fear and anger and sleepless nights taking their toll on him at last.  
  
The last thing he hears before drifting out of consciousness is Alberto’s frustrated “What the hell are you doing Gilardino? You goddamned fucking stupid imbecile!”  
  
  
  
When Riccardo wakes up, Alberto is long gone, the soreness of his body and the stains of semen and blood on the sheets the only proof that the previous night was more than just a deranged figment of his imagination.  
  
Riccardo can feel himself crumbling slowly on the inside, but he has no more tears left to cry.


End file.
